


somewhere off our beaten path

by katjh



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, slight Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katjh/pseuds/katjh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His legs are dangling over the edge of the cliff. He's trying to decide whether he should jump or just fall when there's a voice behind him.</p><p>"Hell of a view."</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere off our beaten path

The note is already lying on his desk in his shitty little one-bedroom apartment. He figures someone will come by in a couple days and find it. Probably the old woman who lives across the hall or his landlord, looking for rent.

 

It's just... Easier. It's far, far easier like this. No mess to clean up to make things difficult when he's gone. His will is in the note, not that there's anything to leave.

 

He's chosen ten in the morning. There's no real reason for the time. He woke up at eight and drove all the way out here, and now it's ten, so it may as well be now.

 

His legs are dangling over the edge of the cliff. He's trying to decide whether he should jump or just fall when there's a voice behind him.

 

"Hell of a view."

He turns, startled. The sun is behind the stranger so he can't see the man's face. The man is staring out past the edge of the cliff, to the horizon.

"Do you want to talk?" the man asks, glancing down at Steve. "I've got the kettle on inside." He gestures toward a little cabin slightly hidden by some trees. Steve hadn't noticed it. It seems this lonely spot isn't quite as secluded as he thought it was when he first chose it.

Really, Steve wants to get back to his final debate, but there's something about this stranger that makes him pause and say, "May I?"

"Be my guest," the man says. He reaches down and helps Steve to his feet, then leads the way to the cabin.

 

It's a cozy little place. Steve thinks it should be small and cramped like his awful apartment, but somehow it's not. Maybe it's because the furniture isn't stained couches and broken chairs; the walls aren't covered in years of nicotine, grime, and god knows what else. Maybe it's because it's not the physical representation of the pit that Steve's had inside his brain for years.

And maybe it's because there's a little kettle on a countertop, a couple barstools at a small table, a faded, ragged but colorful rug at his feet, and a man with a smile and two mismatched mugs.

"My name's Clint," the man says. He puts one mug in front of Steve. "I've got tea and coffee. Green tea, some pomegranate thing, chai, chamomile... What's your preference?"

Steve just sort of stares. "I..." He can't get any words out.

The kettle whistles, and Clint turns off the stove. "I'm having coffee," he says, opening up one of the cabinets. He pulls out a can of coffee and a French press. "It's good stuff."

Steve mumbles, "I'll have a cup then. If it's not too much trouble."

"None at all."

Steve watches Clint move around the small kitchen. The man does everything at a leisurely pace, bringing out the milk and sugar and even a few packets of artificial sweetener. He occasionally hums a little tune or stares at the French press, but he doesn't ask Steve anything more than "how do you take your coffee?"

Steve's coffee is dark and sweet. The coffee flavor is strong, better than any other coffee he's had before. He notes that Clint isn't even looking at him. He's staring at a picture on the wall. It's nothing special: a photo of a sunflower in bloom.

"I think I should put up a few more pictures," Clint says following a long sip from his mug. "I just never know what should go up here."

Steve doesn't know what to say other than, "I've drawn some things."

"Yeah?" Clint turns slightly to look at him squarely. "I've got this picture, which a friend took, and a picture of my dog in the bedroom." He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "Are you okay with dogs? Lucky's not in the house right now, but he does like to wander in. He's friendly, really."

"Um, yeah. I-I like dogs," Steve stammers. He's still not sure what he's doing here. Five minutes ago he was on the precipice.

Clint seems relieved. "Oh, good. Poor thing's always getting a thorn in his paw or a bee sting or getting himself hurt in some way." He smiles a little, inviting Steve to share in this little peculiarity.

 

And somehow, in the little cabin, Steve finds himself opening up. Clint doesn't have to push or prod or ask any questions. Steve just goes from staring into the blackness of his coffee to saying, "I was wondering if I should go backwards so I could watch the sky fall away, or forwards and watch the water get closer." He doesn't know why he says it. The guy's practically a complete stranger. Did he even know what Steve was planning? Steve glances up for a second through his eyelashes, but Clint is back to examining the photograph of the sunflower, his expression blank.

"I guess it doesn't matter, really. Just a matter of what I wanted to be the last thing I saw." He curls both hands around the mug. "I'm all alone, you know. My best friend died overseas and it was my fault. And Peggy... She hates me, I know it. For what happened to Bucky, for everything I did... I liked drawing, back before, but now all I can draw is him. That's all I can see. When I go to sleep, that's what I dream about.

"I don't want that," Steve goes on. At this point he doesn't know if Clint is listening and he doesn't care; the words are pouring out in a rush. "I just want everything to be right again. I want Bucky back, I want to be forgiven, I want to be able to sleep more than three hours at a time and not wake up crying and screaming. And I want to wake up and be able to get out of bed in the morning instead of lying there staring at the water stains on the ceiling and wondering if it's even worth it."

 

He ends up going through another cup of coffee and then a cup of tea, half a box of tissues, and a lot of heartache and tears before he's done talking. His eyes are still wet, and his nose runs, but the sobs have subsided and there's no judgment. There's a dog with one brown eye and soft ears resting its slightly scarred muzzle on Steve's thigh, offering licks to his hand to comfort him, and Clint has listened and listened and listened.

 

There's a plate with three slices of cake left. Steve wipes his eyes again. "I'm sorry," he says for probably the hundredth time.

The sun is drifting lower in the sky.

"Do you want another look at that view?" Clint asks.

Lucky licks the salty tears from Steve's damp fingers. "Yeah," Steve says. "I think I'm ready."

 


End file.
